


Trespasser

by OverwatchingYouSleep



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Captivity, Gore, Healing, Junkenstein's Revenge, Near Death Experiences, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Skull Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverwatchingYouSleep/pseuds/OverwatchingYouSleep
Summary: Reaper fucks your brains out.





	Trespasser

**Author's Note:**

> No literally, please read the tags I can't stress this enough.
> 
> If you like this gross shit and want to see more I do requests @the-yandere-cryptid.tumblr.com

You hadn’t seen the outside world in days. In fact, you’d written off the possibility of ever seeing it again. The Witch of the Wilds did not have a reputation built on being kind to her prisoners. Your offense was slight; another, less powerful witch who unknowingly tread on her territory. You would have hoped the incident could be met with understanding, and you’d be allowed to continue on your way. Then, you wound up in a cell.

Your satchel, with all your valuable potions and books, was missing when you woke up behind these bars for the first time. This left you defenseless, no magic to work your way out of this prison, and barebones jailbreak wasn’t an option: You could see the forcefield wavering just outside of the barred window. Your only choice was to await her return, and accept whatever verdict she decided for you.

This day came two days after your capture, when the heavy iron door swung open and hit the opposite wall with a clang. There she stood, her staff held casually over her shoulder. You were bitter, debating if you’d rather go with her or starve to death in your cell. But, you realized quickly that the choice wasn’t yours: She had you on your feet before you realized your free will was taken, walking you obediently out of the tiny room and down a dimly lit corridor.

“What are you going to do to me?” you asked out of numb lips. She walked right behind you, the pad of a bare foot punctuated by the clack of a heel every step you took.

“I have my ideas,” she told you, a particular venom that you’d only heard out of other witches in her voice. She had thought long and hard about her “ideas” and you could tell it from the very way she spoke about you. “I didn’t realize that you worked for the Witch of the Tundra. It changes things.”

You sucked in a heavy breath. You didn’t have anything on your person to differ to your allegiance, did you? You were supposed to; powerful Witches such as the one you worked for enjoyed dressing up their proteges in tells such as colors and gemstones. The Witch of the Tundra, Mei-Ling Zhou, had one in particular: A pure-crystal bracelet pulled from the core of the Arctic, each made herself. You weren’t wearing yours, even though you were supposed to. You thought it’d be wiser not to hint to your master.

But so much for that.

“Don’t be cryptic, Angela,” you hissed, focusing in on the door at the end of the hallway, slightly ajar and spilling soft yellow light over the stone. “We’re both witches here; explain to me what the hell you plan on doing.”

She didn’t answer you. You huffed and stopped just shy of the door, trying to look through the crack. There was nothing you could make out before the Witch forced you to push the door open, and once the full room was laid before you it was easy to tell why: There was nothing in here, save for a wool carpet and a silhouette in the darkest corner. Once you stepped past the threshold and into the room, said silhouette stepped into the light and uncrossed its arms.

“So this is my present?” The horror stories about the Reaper did not account for the gravel in his voice, a rumble that could only result from damage and wear. It sent your legs into a tizzy, ready to collapse if not for Angela’s magic holding you upright. Angela, whose hands found your shoulders, brushing the back of her fingers over your cheek.

“You don’t like it?” she asked, some actresses’ form of hurt in her voice. Sweat began to bead across your forehead. “If you don’t want it, I can just have somebody else–”

Reaper took another step forward, meeting you on the oval carpet and raising his claws to your other cheek. A triumphant chuckle from behind you, and Mercy pulled her hands away. “I thought so.”

You had no idea what sort of power the Witch had to hold to keep the Reaper under her wing, and you figured it was not a matter of magic at all. The Reaper was a spectre of death that didn’t find himself easily outmatched. That, combined with the fact that you knew Angela was not a Witch of power, but rather a Witch of powerful allies, said something about the relationship you were seeing play out before you. You’d bet anything that Angela had the Reaper under blackmail. Maybe that was something to be used to your advantage.

“Don’t do this,” you whispered, the Witch forcing you to your knees with her magic, execution-style. The mask he wore hid his emotions, if indeed he felt any at all. If he did, your plea did not influence them, so you tried again, tears welling in your eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Mercy called from behind you, leaning against the wall and fiddling with her staff. Of course, Reaper wouldn’t defer from her if she were right here. “Don’t you know how rare witches are these days? No no no, I can’t afford to see you killed.”

“Then what…” Logically you were more afraid of Angela and her tricks, but immediately, the claws that curled into your hair and held your head still were what attracted your attention. You were forced to look straight forward, right at the Reaper’s silver belt buckle, and slowly the pieces started to fall together.

“That’s why I’m here,” the Witch cooed. You felt the air around you–no, just on the back of your neck and shoulders–heat up 20 degrees. Instantly the muscles in your back, tense with days of sleeping on a cell floor, unraveled, kinks and knots worked out and your body relaxing. You’d heard about how potent her healing magic was, but even in admiration for it you’d never hoped to be on the receiving end. “To make sure that you don’t die.”

All of the terrifying implications of that, and yet combined with the sight of Reaper unhooking his belt, it meant very few of them. You started to hyperventilate, the power of the Witches magic holding you still so you could drink in the slow process of Reaper disrobing. The clink of his belt hitting the floor, his claw sliding beneath the fabric and peeling down his pants. When his cock finally popped free, bobbing right in front of your lips, you were already dry-heaving your tears.

“Please don’t,” you begged, watching him hold the base of his cock and align it with your mouth, “Wait–”

“Not there, Reaper,” the Witch cut in, her magic still pulsing throughout your body. There was a pause as the command settled, your sobbing momentarily quieted, before the coin dropped and Reaper readjusted. Once he was aligned with your left eye, he didn’t wait for Angela’s say-so before he started to push forth.

“NO!” you screamed, but you could do nothing but scream. Your vision went out like a light, the other half flashing with bright colors that you imagined was from the pain you weren’t feeling. Angela kept you from suffering the worst of it, but even without pain there was nothing pleasant about unfamiliar flesh pushing past your eye and into your brain, where you could feel your insides giving under the pressure.

You screamed until your voice gave out, which didn’t take long at all with your volume. Warm blood oozed around your stuffed eye socket and down your cheek. Every active nerve in your body rebelled against the violation. Reaper didn’t slow down, his claws digging into your skull and holding you against his cock, pushing your head down further until he couldn’t get any more of himself inside your eye cavity.

“Fuuuck,” Reaper growled. His hips were flush against your face, his cock buried deep into your skull. Synapses left unable to fire, your thoughts grew sporadic, inarticulate, and at times, went dark entirely. Maybe you died. Maybe your brain just simply didn’t have the mass it needed to continue functioning the way it should.

But you always came back to the same thing: Reaper pulling back and letting you catch the faintest glimpse of his bloody cock before he shoved it back inside of you, your brain already repairing itself in its absence. As long as Angela healed you, your body continuously regrew around Reaper’s intrusion, tissue reattaching and getting torn again and again.

It only feels like moments before he yanks his cock out of you and cums, though you knew it to be longer. You were still muddled when his spunk splattered over the bloody mess that was once your face. Slumped to the floor, it wasn’t until you felt your eye start to regenerate that coherent thought once again crossed your now-intact brain. You pulled yourself to shaking hands and knees, watching the blood and cum drip off your face and onto the carpet.

“Have you learned your lesson?” Angela asked, playing innocent. You blinked, and once again your vision was whole, and only then did you feel the radiance leave you, the temperature of the room returning to normal. You expected excruciating pain, but it never came. Just the strong sense of unease that came from a close call with death.

“Fuck you,” you manage when the words find you. Her laughter, a chime of bells that sickened your already turned stomach, was far from jovial.

“Meddle with me again, little witch. We’ll see how confident you feel then.”


End file.
